


For Science

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Because Dirk is a weird boy, Blow Jobs, Dubious robot parts, Ironic Sexual Experiments, M/M, POV Second Person, Sex Toys, Snark, These are some weird fucking sex toys, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I thought this was for science,” you point out. “Isn’t the lowly lab tech supposed to handle all of the equipment? You’re gonna corrupt the data, bro, muscle off that salami before you contaminate it.”</i>
</p><p>It's not cool to back down from a challenge, insincerely issued and cloaked in ironic pretense as it might be, and Dave will do a lot of stupid things once. He isn't even sure how stupid this is. It's a weird, absurd claim but that's kind of the point -- Dirk presents the field of inquiry and they both go to extreme lengths to prove or disprove his theories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Science

**Author's Note:**

> Sex toys may be more or less weird than implied on the warning label. 
> 
> Fun fact. This was begun as joke smut in response to comments with [Strideer](http://strideer.tumblr.com/) about how dicks are incapable of flexing. It went from "writing a porn parody about lifting weights with a penis" to "legit premise in which Strider bros say ridiculous things and then touch dicks behind the flimsy pretense of irony" in about five seconds flat. 
> 
> I'm actually pretty pleased with the result, especially with the slight lingering air of ridiculousness that really only suits Dave and Dirk.

It begins with innocently ironic banter, as such things are wont to do between Striders. 

You go a few rounds with Dirk, get sweat flowing and sparring going, until your blood rushes and you are both flushed with the exertion. After cooling down, you lounge together in the shade of one monolithic air conditioning unit, making lazy, insincere jabs at each other's physical prowess. 

You probably brought your junk into the equation before Dirk did.

Dirk definitely made the bored assertion that he could bench-press a significant load with his dick before you ever went as far as mixing those metaphors. 

You stare at each other for a long moment, silent communication of "are we really about to go there?"

You look at the heavy metal ring balanced between your fingers not ten minutes later, sitting on your haunches in your living room and well out of the lethargy-inducing noonday sun, and realize the answer was "yes" before you even stepped into the arena of argument. The answer is always "yes" because it's not cool to back down and you'll do a lot of stupid things once.

You aren't even sure how stupid this is. 

"What the fuck even is this?" you ask, nigh-rhetorically, holding up the metal ring before your face and squinting through the hole in the center. 

Dirk is still methodically unbuckling his belt and undoing his fly as he gives the succinct answer of, "Robot parts." 

You take a moment to again question what the shit you're both doing, but dicks don't bench-press, they don't flex and they don't lift weights and you're perfectly goddamn happy to dangle heavy metal objects from your bro's dick in order to prove that he is stone-cold fucking wrong. You take an equally invested moment to question whether the object in your hand was actually designed with technological pursuits in mind or if it's legitimately some sort of weird sex toy. A cock ring for serious masochists. Something like that. 

Dirk slides his pants off his hips, slides his underwear down too, and you emerge from your thoughts to an eyeful of spam porpoise loosely gripped by dextrous, calloused fingers. It's not a very impressive eyeful, you think, perhaps owning to the fact that Dirk isn't even halfway erect. You tip the scales of "correctness" slightly further in your favor because the idea of that cock flex-lifting anything is laughable in the extreme. 

"Give me a minute," he says. 

Casual, like there isn't anything strange about the occurrence of waving his junk in your face and hell, there kind of isn't. You might be disappointed that the thought of you handling his equipment for science doesn't get it up even a little, but that thought doesn't even deserve a verbal honorary mention. It's superseded by the reality of Dirk stroking himself in a manner that bears little resemblance to anything done for science ever, and you're just going to sit back and watch a show that passed bromosexual some sixty kilometers back. This is so far into homoerotic territory that you doubt "bromosexual" is even dust in your rearview mirror. 

It's gratifying, in a way, that your face half a meter from Dirk's junk is no way impeding the rapid approach of bonertown, and it doesn't manage to bother you that you've voluntarily assumed the position for a one-man performance of manbro bukkake theater. That's not where this is going so there's no deal against watching the brisk, measured progress of Dirk's fingers along his length. 

"I thought this was for science," you point out. "Isn't the lowly lab tech supposed to handle all of the equipment? You're gonna corrupt the data, bro, muscle off that salami before you contaminate it."

"I wasn't aware this was a formal empirical study," Dirk says. 

But he lets go of his dick and you definitely just asked for permission to jerk your bro off, better not drop the ball when he's full speed ahead. Like he's literally at full mast, you could rig a sail to this thing and depart for the high seas, there is virtually no need for you to embark into the treacherous handjob waters. 

You do it anyway. 

You have a sharp eye, thank you very much, and it isn't so difficult to imitate Dirk's grip when he was touching himself. There's a stab at flippancy, at removal from the situation and at seeming like this is all for the handy benefit of proving a point, except then you tighten down your hold until he makes a little sound from between his lips, quiet as he is, and that is more gratifying that you're bothering to quantify. 

You give a few more firm strokes, all measured and scientific up in this shit, before letting go. His dick bobs back up toward his stomach, gently, and you think from this angle that he curves just slightly to the left. 

"For science?" you ask again, like it's a prompt and bravado, holding what resembles nothing more than a huge weighty metal washer in your hand and wiggling it at him. There are three more in your lap and this is still ridiculous. 

"For science," Dirk agrees, and you are not imagining it, that was just a subtle pelvic thrust towards your face. Like a nonverbal "get on with it" and jeez he's a cocky shit sometimes. 

The washer-object slides over his cock with relative ease, the inner surface proving to be smooth and resistance-free and the circumference of the gap in the middle is so similar to the circumference of his cock that you have a very hard time believing this is really not a sex toy. 

Or maybe it's just a piece of hardware that Dirk has already used as a sex toy, who fucking knows. 

The ring edges up against the base of his erection, pressed against Dirk's balls, and it's close enough to his body that when you let go, its own weight holds it in place. It's pretty fucking heavy, when you really consider that, and the question of whether that kind of hurts becomes shockingly relevant once again. 

Dirk looks down on you, his mild expression verging on the serene, and his cock bobs gently, either residual motion from your touch or the result of the weight hanging on it. His cock gives a little twitch, like a response to some particularly pleasing ministration from you except you aren't doing anything and it may not have been just an involuntary jump of arousal. He may actually have that much control over his bodily reactions and holy shit, that's verging on porn star hot. 

"That doesn't count as bench-pressing."

"I moved it," Dirk asserts. "If you're hoping for my cock to transfigure into a muscly baby arm right out of a bad 70's-style cartoon and start pumping iron, you're going to be sorely disappointed."

"I think that's one of the least erotic things that's ever tumbled out of your mouth," you tell him, scoffing. 

"I wasn't aware I was trying to turn you on."

His words are even, measured, succinct as they call you out and yeah, that maybe sounded like asking Dirk to dirty talk you. It wasn't, you know it wasn't, you're just telling him that a little dick-wiggling doesn't fulfill the terms of this scientific endeavor. But you aren't averse to the suggestion.

You are, in fact, halfway to hard and completely failing to provide an intelligent rejoinder. 

"Keep going," Dirk prompts, in the face of your lapse.

This isn't even hot. It's hella weird and you're pretty much hanging metal loops on Dirk's junk like they're Christmas ornaments. But he's tolerating your fingers on his shaft with a fond sort of amusement, and you suppose the fact that he's ribbing you with his hard cock in your face is kind of a turn on. Just a little. So you slide the next hoop down, watch as its added weight causes his cock to sag closer to your face, but their shapes slot together and it doesn't fall off. 

"Doesn't that fucking hurt?" you ask, despite yourself. 

Damn thought won't go away. 

"Not especially," Dirk replies. 

You're wondering what other weird shit he does to his equipment in the privacy of isolation, and it's tempting to dwell on, a not-unfamiliar road towards damnation and few hopes of return.

Dirk twitches his hips at you again, less subtly than before, wordlessly raising the question of whether this absurd bullshit turns _him_ on. You'll only confess to digging touching his dick, to handling that is a bit more reverent than clinical and to behavior that is way more homosexual than scientific. Dirk is just into weird, weird things and he's a strange dude and you're unsurprisingly okay with that.

"Much as you might like to turn this into a three-ring circus, I'd bet money the next one is going to fall off," you point out, holding the metal hoop in your hands. 

It's the muscles in his stomach that jump, not his dick that flexes, and all Dirk says is, "I think you're wrong."

That's the point all along: Dirk makes this weird, absurd claim and then you both go to extreme lengths to prove or disprove it, because it's stupid and funny and you're teenage boys with nothing better to do. You think he's wrong and that's also the point, but you can't be assed to give a whole shit about proving you're right. 

"I don't want to break off your brittle beef stick, bro, I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

Dirk snorts at you, short and not especially impressed, and this time he nudges you right in the cheek with the head of his cock.

Pushy asshole. 

If he's going to be rude about it, you're considering yourself absolved of any responsibility for breaking his dick. You grab him a bit more roughly than before, to the tune of a hushed little intake of breath that might have been approval, and shove the ring down his length. 

You realize at about this moment that the rings are subtly graduated in size, and you've been sliding them on big to small. The last fits snugly against Dirk, holds itself in place even as his cock droops downward and tempts the entire bizarre configuration to go slipping off. 

The "I told you so" is written with obscene clarity on Dirk's face, much as he would never express so juvenile a sentiment out loud. You stare at his cock and refuse to believe it doesn't hurt but he's as hard as before and Dirk is such a weird fucker. 

"Providing you're not expecting the equivalent of arm curls," Dirk starts, "I believe we've established the validity of my premise."

Each word is crisply delivered, half a step from talking down to you and fucking shit that should not be hot.

"We've established you can dangle things from your dick," you say. "Don't think that's much of an accomplishment, bro."

"Technicalities," Dirk says. 

He nudges at your face again. 

"Yeah, yeah," you say dismissively, because you somehow still have a boner and can no longer give a shit about this inane debate. "I'm totally impressed with your ability to put a bunch of weight on your dick without it falling off. Do you want a cookie?"

"Nah," he says, like he doesn't care any more either. "I want you to take them back off if you're gonna because science says there is such a thing as too much foreplay."

Foreplay, he calls it. 

"Thought you said it didn't hurt."

"Ready to get off, bro," he tells you, too motherfucking calmly. "Orgasm denial is not my kink."

His straightforwardness is arresting, rocks you back on your heels because there is the admission, underhanded as it still might be, that some aspect of this is what has his dick hard. There is the implication that any aches are not pain, are simply a need for release and c'mon, bro, that's only human, there isn't a damn thing weird or verging on manipulative about this at all. 

He could take his toys and leave the sandbox if he wanted, could go tend to his literally straining erection in private. But he doesn't. It's a challenge, implicit though it might be, a silent prompting of "you're getting off on some part of this too so let's just have the whole hog." That's the point, was the point all along, and you realize that your answer to this was also "yes" before you even got going. 

"Way to be a gentleman about it, bro," you tell him.

But your thumb presses against the underside of his cock, just above the weighted rings, and your first two fingers curl around him without sliding those rings off. If that shit doesn't hurt then this is no big deal. Your tongue tracks a path from above the pad of your thumb to the head of his cock, leaving a broad, damp swathe before you wrap lips around him and offer a subtle little suckle. 

This territory isn't unfamiliar, it just drops down to minimal importance when it isn't right in your face. 

Which is pretty often. 

Dirk is quiet and you don't really like that, but his fingers trail up the back of your neck and slip into your hair and you're aware that quiet is not the same as unresponsive. He's all about his vaunted restraint and control, and you're just about bobbing your head and hallowing your cheeks, all acute suction and the drag of your tongue along the underside of his cock when you pull back. You're rhythmic and persistent and each downward press of your mouth takes him a little bit farther, and you're fairly certain you make a little noise out your nose before Dirk ever does. 

But his hand is in your hair and his fingers brush your cheek and you're pretty sure that much of a tender gesture drops the irony points down to nil. Your shame has flown right off on a week-long vacation, and you're okay grinding your palm against the front of your jeans even though that is just a little bit desperate and lame. You can't not touch yourself when you finesse your tongue in a curl against the head of his cock and it earns you the best small sound of encouragement. 

Dirk takes a very long time to come. 

It's long enough for you to bother scrabbling at your fly, for you to one-hand button and zip and fumble your dick out, for you to fist your cock in your hand and pump in messy time with the motions of your mouth. It's long enough for you to whine against him, because you're edging yourself up too and there's this needy impatience that builds in your brain as much as in your balls. It's long enough for you to strangle your own sounds with his dick down your throat because you get off first and it's almost surprising, just like it's a little bit unexpected that Dirk strokes your cheek with his thumb when you do. 

You're fairly certain busting a nut while blowing him is the sight that pulls a low groan from his throat, appreciation and understated reward and you hoard all of his sounds with greedy, manic glee. The fingers pressing down at the back of your neck, tightening in your hair, are your warning, and you're pretty sure he wouldn't have let go even if you tried to pull back. But you're staying right the fuck where you are so who gives a flying fuck. 

The best noise of all is the little suppressed one when Dirk finally gets off. 

His hands do drop away when he's very much done, that being the cue for you to cut your last gentle suckling and slide your mouth off of him. You don't waste any time sliding the metal rings off his softening cock either, still failing to believe that shit is wholly comfortable. The submissive posturing stuff is getting pretty stale now that you're harboring neither a semi nor a full-blown erection, and you push yourself to your feet, crack your back, and tuck your dick back into your pants. 

You're both on the couch, cleaned up and fully dressed and watching vapid reality television not fifteen minutes later, chill as fucking cucumbers. You're flopped over Dirk's lap because he's almost not-bony enough to make a kickass cushion, and he probably isn't humoring you when you get him to kiss you on the mouth during the commercial break. 

He still thinks he was right but that's kind of the point, Dirk is always straight-up sure of himself, and you humor him because it contributes to some hot makeout action.


End file.
